


I can't abide romantic notions of some vague long ago

by CharacteristicallyMinor



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 08:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6847276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharacteristicallyMinor/pseuds/CharacteristicallyMinor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem, Kent thinks, is that it's assumed that only one person can be fucked up at once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I can't abide romantic notions of some vague long ago

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song "It All Comes Back" from the musical Fun Home.

Kent and Zimms weren't friends from the start. They were teammates, sure, but neither of them were good at actually making friends. Kent had figured Zimms thought he was better than them, with his superstar dad. Whereas Kent didn't make friends since it was too much effort and too little reward. He had teammates he could talk to, and that was enough. It had to be.

That didn't change for a few months. After a major game they just barely won, the locker room was a big party. Kent normally didn't mind that. If he was feeling good, it was fun to participate in the shared enthusiasm, and if he wasn't, he could still fake it pretty well.

That day, though, he was sick of faking it. All he wanted was to go back to his room and sleep. He looked around for his earbuds; they were his best excuse for being distracted or looking like he was in his own world. But of course, they were missing. He'd probably left them in his room.

He ducked out of the locker room after redressing as quickly as possible, and went off to find somewhere quiet.

After a couple minutes of walking, Kent hit upon an abandoned hallway. It ended in an emergency exit, and Kent was pretty confident no one had been down it for a long time.

He quickly lost that confidence when he almost tripped over somebody's leg. Kent's balance was pretty good, and he managed to catch himself before faceplanting on the ground.

"Sorry," the owner of the leg said. “I didn’t realize anyone used this hallway.”

Kent looked down to see that he’d almost tripped over Zimms, who’d been sitting in an alcove against the door to what was probably a supply cabinet. Kent wondered why the superstar of the team was hiding in a hallway before deciding he didn’t care.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Kent said out of a mix of exhaustion and daring. “I don’t ask why you’re hiding from the celebration, you don’t ask why I’m hiding from the celebration, and we share the empty hallway.”

“Alright,” Zimms agreed, sounding surprised.

Kent sat down against the wall across the hallway from Zimms and closed his eyes. They’d have to go back soon, he knew. But he could take a break for a little while until then. 

* * *

Kent kept an eye out for Zimms after that. Kent hid only when the thought of being around the others was too much; when he couldn’t stand having to pretend that he was experiencing actual excitement and not just a vague sense of pleasure at their win. It took Kent a little while to figure out Zimms’ pattern; it wasn’t consistently wins or losses. Finally, Kent realized that Zimms went off to hide when he was blaming himself for something. Even if they won the game, if Zimms felt that he personally had played poorly, he’d go off to chastise himself. 

Kent didn’t do much about it, at first. Zimms was coping fine, as far as Kent could tell. Not that Kent was particularly good at evaluating teammates’ mental health, but Zimms seemed mostly fine, if quiet.

Meanwhile, Kent’s depression wasn’t getting better or worse. Not that it was actually depression. Actual depression would probably mean that he’d have to stop playing hockey, either because they wouldn’t want someone who couldn’t give 100% on the team or because he’d be too fucked up to play at all. And Kent wasn’t. 

He had to admit that a lot of the symptoms of depression he’d googled a while back sounded pretty familiar. But that didn’t mean he was actually depressed. He was probably just being overdramatic. He wasn’t, like, sad or suicidal or whatever. He was just tired as fuck and not strongly emotional. And his tiredness could be blamed on the long hours of practice, while his stoicism was typical in athletes. 

Kent’s conviction that he probably wasn’t depressed didn’t hold up so well when Zimms found him crying after a major win. They’d won 4-1, and Kent’s hat trick meant that he was getting most of the credit. It had taken him forever to get out of the locker room, but his teammates had let him leave after he made a couple of comments about finding a fan to hook up with. 

And winning was great, he was glad that they’d won. It was just that any normal player would have been thrilled, and he just felt kind of good about it. A year ago, this would have been a major cause for celebration. Kent missed having a normal emotional range, sometimes. 

Kent wasn’t even sure how he started crying, it was just that he was depressed and he hated being depressed and he wondered sometimes if this would ever get better. If he would someday win the Stanley Cup and feel a vague sense of satisfaction, because he wasn’t able to feel anything stronger.

Of course, that scenario would never happen. Kent was good, but he wasn’t good enough to win the Stanley Cup. Everyone would figure out what a fuckup he was long before he had a chance to fuck up some NHL team’s chance of winning. And then Kent would be shit out of luck, since he wasn’t good at anything except for hockey. 

Kent heard the sound of footsteps and hastily wiped his eyes. He pulled out his phone and looked at it intently, as though he’d just run off to text someone.

The footsteps neared. 

“Oh,” Kent said. “It’s you.” He realized after saying it that he probably sounded rude, but he was relieved to see Zimms. Zimms was probably going to do his own hallway hiding thing, and so Kent wouldn’t have to worry about being dragged back to the celebration.

“Have you been crying?” Zimms asked incredulously.

“Of course not,” Kent snapped.

“We won. You were amazing out there,” Zimms said. “I’m the only one who screwed up.”

“You didn’t screw up!” Kent protested, surprised. “You got two assists.”

“But I didn’t get any goals,” Zimms argued. “And my parents are here and I wanted to make them proud. What’s your issue?”

Kent considered how much to tell Zimms. He wouldn’t have said anything at all if Zimms hadn’t explained what was bothering him, but he felt like he should reciprocate. 

“I don’t really do excitement or happiness,” Kent confessed. “Not anymore.”

“Are you depressed?” Zimms asked.

“I- I don’t think- maybe?” Kent settled on. He didn’t like considering the possibility that he was depressed, but it would have felt wrong to say he wasn’t. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Zimms said, looking genuinely sympathetic. “I think- I know I’ve got anxiety.”

“Okay,” Kent said. He felt stupid for not having a better response. 

“We’ve got like ten minutes until someone comes looking for us,” Zimms said, sitting down on the ground next to Kent.

They sat together in silence until it was time to go.

* * *

“Where’s Zimms?” Donz, a second string forward, asked the locker room at large. 

“He said he had a migraine,” one of the other guys replied.

“Man, migraines are the worst,” Kent said sympathetically.

“You get them too, right?” Donz asked Kent.

“Yeah,” Kent said. “Mine are more often, less severe.”

After practice, Kent texted Jack. _U ok?_

Jack replied, _Can’t get out of my head. Some reporter asked me yesterday how it felt to continue dad’s legacy._

Kent winced. Jack had major issues with his dad. Kent had originally assumed that Bad Bob was a terrible taskmaster of a father, but Jack had explained that Bad Bob wasn’t putting any pressure on him- Jack was putting the pressure on himself. Somehow, that didn’t make the situation better. _Want me to come over?_

 _Sure_ , Jack replied after a minute. 

Kent was the one who had taught the migraine trick to Jack. Headaches were invisible, temporary, and medically valid reasons to feel like shit. Kent had actual migraines sometimes, but he’d gotten into the habit of blaming it on a migraine when he was too depressed to actually go to practice, or when he wasn’t able to hide how bad he felt. Jack had adopted the strategy with some reluctance, but it had proved necessary a few times. 

Kent wasn’t sure if it was good that he was teaching Jack ways to hide his mental illness, but at least they weren’t hiding from each other. That had to be something.

* * *

“What’s a normal number of times per hour to think about suicide? Like five?” Kent asked Jack. “Ten? Like, just in a theoretical way, not as an actual plan of action or anything.”

They were hanging out in together at Kent’s room in his billet family’s house. They’d been playing Mario Kart on their Nintendo DS’s, and Kent’s question distracted Jack enough that Jack lost his lead.

“Kenny,” Jack said seriously. “Zero is the normal number of times per hour. Anything more is a cause for concern.”

“Not like, actual suicidal thoughts. Just like ‘crap, I said something stupid, maybe I should kill myself except actually I really shouldn’t,’’’ Kent explained. 

“Then the number is like once a week. At most,” Jack said firmly. 

“Oh,” Kent said. He’d thought that suicide was coming up in his internal monologue a bit too often, but apparently it was never supposed to have been there in the first place. That seemed kind of weird to Kent, but he trusted Jack to tell him the truth.

“My parents have been telling me that I should see a therapist,’ Jack said. “Maybe you should, too.”

“I don’t know, man,” Kent replied. “I don’t like the idea, but maybe.”

“I’ll go if you go,” Jack offered. It sounded a little like a dare, and that’s why Kent finally agreed.

They ended up going to a psychiatrist instead of a therapist. It’s easier to be prescribed drugs than it is to meet with a therapist weekly, especially given their schedules. They decided together that if things are still bad during the off season, they’ll start going to a therapist then.

The psychiatrist signed a couple of intense NDA’s before even learning their names. Kent was diagnosed with depression and Jack was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder. They filled their prescriptions together and Kent dared to hope.

* * *

The pills helped Kent a lot. They weren’t perfect and came with a few side effects, but Kent suddenly felt okay with the idea of being alive in a way he hadn’t been in a while. He was able to celebrate victories without feeling like he was missing the point.

Jack’s pills seemed to be helping him, too. Jack still had some hang-ups about his old man, but they didn’t seem to overpower him. Kent almost never saw Jack leave to hide in an abandoned hallway after the game. Jack seemed tense in the locker room a lot, but Kent thinks it’s still progress.

Jack’s pills gave him actual headaches sometimes. Kent was glad they’d been using the headaches as an excuse before, since it meant Jack didn’t need to explain why he was suddenly developing headaches. 

Something clicked and suddenly they played together better than ever. It felt like they could sense each other without ever having to look, and they rack up the points and assists. They became the new dream team of junior hockey.

* * *

Kent started to notice Jack shortly after the pills started kicking in. Kent wondered if his depression was fucking with his libido or something before, since it suddenly became much more active. Jack was his best friend, but he was also a very attractive guy. Kent wasn’t sure if he had an actual crush on Jack or if he was just feeling a mixture of physical attraction and best-friend platonic love, but it was a moot point. Kent wanted Jack, and Kent had only a limited window of opportunity to make his move. 

The night they won the Memorial Cup, Kent motioned for Jack to follow him out of the locker room. They found a deserted hallway, as they had so many times before.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asked him. “Is your depression coming back?”

Instead of answering, Kent kissed Jack. Jack kissed him back, and for a moment Kent daydreams about dating Jack. They’d have to be long distance, at least for a while, but they’d made it through worse than having to talk through Skype. They’d come out in five years or something, after they’ve both won the Stanley Cup at least once, and they’d weather the media frenzy together.

Then Jack pulled back and said seriously, “I don’t think this is a good idea, so soon before the draft.”

“You’re right,” Kent agreed, heart falling. “Let’s just chalk it up to adrenaline and excitement.”

If alcohol wouldn’t interfere with Kent’s meds, he would have gotten wasted. Instead, he drank virgin drinks and pretended to be a little drunk. Kent saw Jack drinking what looks like actual alcohol and envied him for his medicine that doesn’t react negatively to alcohol.

Kent was kind of surprised, actually. He could have sworn that Jack’s pills were also the type you weren’t supposed to drink with. But he didn’t worry about it. Jack was too responsible to mess that up.

* * *

They spent the thirty-four days between winning the Memorial Cup and the draft together. It felt a little too much like a farewell tour for Kent’s liking. Jack was hung up on who’s going to go first in the draft. In his mind, the draft became some contest deciding whether or not he’s successfully living up to his dad’s legacy. 

Kent cared about the draft, too. Of course he did. But he didn’t have a strong preference between the teams with the first and second pick, and he was less hung up on being the very best as Jack is. He was awesome, and the draft wasn't going to change that. Besides, coming in second behind Jack wouldn't be something to be ashamed of. 

Kent saw Jack pop pills more and more often before the draft. He asked him about it, once, but Jack said he had gotten permission from the psychiatrist. Kent was glad Jack was getting help instead of suffering in silence; he thought that going to a psychiatrist was probably one of the best decisions they’ve ever made. 

A couple of days before the draft, Kent almost entirely stopped caring about the outcome. Whatever happened, happened. Either way, the draft would end with him and Jack being NHL players. They’d do what they love for a living, and they’d be playing with the best of the best. After Jack’s first Stanley Cup win, he’d stop worrying about living up to his dad since he’d have proof that he had earned his own reputation. Kent’s own Stanley Cup win would be even sweeter, of course.

Kent couldn't wait for the future to come.


End file.
